Felicity's Apartment
by iluvtorun
Summary: Oliver finally visits Felicity's apartment, and make a discovery that will change the course of their lives forever. Born from a speculation post on Tumblr that got wildly out of hand. Season 2 spoilers. Angst, STRAIGHT UP ANGST. Consider yourself warned.
1. Part I-The Beginning of The End

_AN: A bit of back story on this little mess before we get started . . . .This story started as more of a speculation post on my tumblr page. Before 2x13 aired, many Oliciters were hoping we would get our first glimpse of Felicity's apartment. We've seen where nearly every other major character of this show lives—Diggle, Oliver, Lance, Laurel, hell even where Malcolm Merlyn lived. We've seen where Carly lives, McKenna, Helena . . . pretty much everyone but Felicity. My brain got away from itself speculating if there was a reason that TPTB have kept us from seeing where Felicity lives, and it ended up being a sort of "what if" post written in the future tense. That was several days ago, and my brain hasn't been able to let this go. The original sort-of-drabble can be found on my tumblr page._

_A word of caution: I believe Felicity will forgive Oliver almost anything, any of you who have read my work know that that's how I am (even if it drives you nuts.) I'm a happily ever after girl, even though I love the angst. This is your warning, this story (which will be 2-3 chapters) probably won't be a HEA. At least not any time soon, because I don't have the time to devote to dealing with it. These planned chapters will be angst filled, and painful, and will not end with a happy kiss and all is forgiven. So consider yourself forwarned. Now, enjoy, I guess? Mostly, I'm sorry that this wouldn't leave me alone._

Part 1-The Beginning of the End

It had been Sara that had finally called him on it. After he had come within inches of losing her, and he was still shaking from the fear, Sara looked at him with surprised, knowing eyes.

"You're in love with her," she had said. It hadn't been a question—she had spoken it with absolute certainty.

He could have denied it. He could have argued. This was Sara, after all—they still occasionally fell back into their not-quite-defined cycle of screwing-for-the-sake-of-screwing, because it was familiar and they didn't have to hide anything from each other. But considering he had thought Felicity was going to die only an hour before, he couldn't bring himself to form an argument.

Somehow, he ended up finally asking Felicity out to dinner. Which was how he ended up at her apartment door. He had never been here, and he considered that odd, since she had been his partner in crime (literally) for well over a year. When she opened the door, she waved him in, rushing off to the kitchen as soon as he was through the door.

"Come in, I'm running late. The neighbor needed help with her computer—she got some kind of virus. And it was the kind of virus that took a good fifteen minutes to get rid of, not the easy five minute kind." He smiled at that. "So that made me late. And I'm not even sure where we're going. Or why you feel to take me to dinner, for that matter, because we eat dinner together almost every evening."

He chuckled, roaming around her living room as she rambled. "To go boxes don't count," he teased. She went on, talking more about the neighbor, while he looked at the framed pictures that rested on the end tables that bracketed the single bright blue sofa in her living room. He saw her on what must have been her graduation day from MIT, standing proudly with her diploma. He would have expected to see someone standing beside her, but she stood alone. Her mother was in the second picture though. She was slightly shorter than Felicity, and a bit softer in her features. She had the same blue eyes and flowing blond hair, but the similarities ended there. Standing side by side with her daughter, who looked to be eleven or so at the time, Felicity's mother looked weary and tired. She lacked the light that Felicity seemed to exude on a daily basis.

"So where are we going, anyway?" Felicity asked as he crossed to the other side of the sofa to look at the other pictures.

"Oh, I don't know. Somewhere without boxes. Maybe . . ." And then he forgot what he was saying as he stared at the next picture. He reached down and picked it up, thinking that his mind must be playing tricks on him. Maybe since Slade came back from the dead and had nearly taken Felicity from him, his mind thought it would be a great idea to impose images of other people he had killed over Felicity's family pictures. He blinked and brought the picture closer.

_Impossible. _He couldn't be seeing what he is seeing.

Felicity walked back into the room then, putting her coat on. "Okay ready . . ." Her voice trailed off as she took in his face. "Oliver, what is it?" He felt a little numb, so he had no idea what his face must have looked like, but it couldn't have been good. He couldn't manage to make his mouth form a single word, so he just held the photo out for her to see.

"Oh," she said softly. She blinked as her eyes became suddenly red. "That's um, the only picture I have of all three of us. I think I was, oh, maybe three at the time? He left a couple of months after that. I can't bring myself to put it away—if it weren't for that picture, I think I would have forgotten what he looked like a long time ago."

Oliver swallowed, turning the picture back toward him again. He felt like he should say something—maybe comment on how much she looked like herself, all gangly limbs and think glasses and long, blond pigtails. But he can't manage to form the words. He can barely tear his gaze away from the face of the man holding the sweet little girl who would turn into the woman before him. Because he knew that face. He knew the man holding the little girl. Oliver knew his name, and he knew how he died, because he had killed him with his own two hands.

The man in the picture is Anthony Ivo. Not only has he killed his sister's father, he has apparently also killed Felicity's.

He looked back up at Felicity, and saw uncertainty in her eyes. "Hey, are you okay?" She stepped forward and reached for his wrist. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

He put the picture down and swallowed. His heart dropped down to his toes as he felt her gentle touch on his skin. She slid her hand down his wrist and took his hand in her much smaller one. In a moment of clarity, he saw himself through her eyes—a struggling man, tampered down with demons but wanting to be a hero. Suddenly, eh was overcome by the need to escape. Because there was no way she could possibly see him that way if she knew that he had choked the life out of her father—a man that she clearly still missed and thought of often—with the hand that she was still holding. The thought of her no longer seeing him as she currently did was almost too much.

"Um, something came up," he said suddenly. The words burned as they came out, because he hadn't lied to Felicity in well over a year. He hadn't lied to her since she had joined their mission. Even the lies he _had _told her, back when he used to go down to her office at QC had been so terrible that she had seen right through them.

"Ohh, something Arrow-y?" She asks with a smile, and he could swear her eyes lit up at the idea.

He shook his head, resisting the urge to close his drop his gaze from hers. He didn't want to lie to her, but there's no way he can tell her the truth. There's also no way he can stay with her now, and take her to dinner, knowing what he knows. He won't be able to look her in the eye, knowing that he is keeping a huge and earth-shattering secret from her. A secret that will change how she sees him forever. "No. At home. I need to go."

Her smile fell, and her eyes squinted as she regarded him carefully. "Oh, ok."

Before the words were out of her mouth, he already had his hand on the handle of her front door. Because he could not get out of there fast enough. _He had killed her father_.

Her hand touches his shoulder as he pulled the door open to leave. "Oliver, you never answered me. Are you okay?"

_Not even remotely. _He closed his eyes, realizing that she might never want to touch him again if she knows the truth. He knew that Felicity gave forgiveness easily—maybe easier than she should, especially to him. But he suspected that she might never forgive him for this.

Opening his eyes, he met hers. He gave her his fake smile, the one that belonged to Ollie Queen, the spoiled playboy. "Yeah," he lied. "I just need to take care of this." He saw the confusion in her eyes as she tried to comprehend what had just happened as he turned to go. He had to get out of there before she saw right through him to the black, broken interior.

He could feel her watch him go, and he knew that she knew he has just lied to her. _To her. _The one person he felt like he never had to lie to. The one person that he could always be himself with.

_He killed her father. _Now he knows the truth. And he is certain that _she _would never forgive him if she knew the truth. She would never see him in the same way again. She wouldn't see her partner, or her friend, or a hero. She would only see the man who killed her father. And he couldn't bear the thought of her looking at him like that.

The truth is a funny thing, though. It never stays hidden for long.


	2. Part II - Outside The Source

Part II – Outside the Source

Felicity sat in her chair in the Foundry, staring at her purse. It had been a week since her aborted date with Oliver, and things had been awkward . . . at best. He wouldn't talk to her. She _knew_ something was eating him away, could see it plain as day every time he watched her when he thought she wasn't looking, but when she tried to ask him about it his reaction was always the same. He brushed it off, and then he ran.

Oliver always ran when things got too tough. It had been his M.O. for a long time. She had thought he was growing out of it, but maybe not. She would have thought that this was about Slade, about the fact that he felt responsible for her nearly dying, except that he had been _okay_ until he had seen the picture in her apartment. Which is why her only family picture was riding around in her purse. Diggle had seen the picture—he had been to her apartment plenty of times after the Undertaking. So there were only two people she could think of who might be able to tell her who was in the picture—Sara and Moira. Obviously, she wasn't planning on asking the latter any time soon. Ever since Moira threatened her to keep the information about Thea's parentage secret, Felicity avoided her whenever possible.

So she had called Sara, and asked her to meet her in the lair. It was early on a Saturday morning—Oliver and Diggle wouldn't be here for hours. She heard the door open and glanced up the stairs to see Sara. She took a deep, steadying breath, hoping that this wouldn't be too awkward, and that she would get some answers.

Sara smiled at her as she came down the stairs. "So what's up, Felicity?"

Felicity shifted in her chair, pulling her purse into her lap. "Oliver's been acting weird lately."

Sara grinned and leaned against the table. "Yeah, I think we're all aware of that one."

"He won't talk to me," Felicity continued.

"I thought he was going to ask you out?" Sara said. "I was expecting his mood to improve, not get worse."

"He did, actually," Felicity said slowly. "He asked me to dinner." She slowly pulled the picture frame out, toying with the edges. "And everything was fine until he saw this picture. Then he lied to me, and he left, and he has been evading me ever since."

Sara leaned in, taking the picture frame from Felicity with curiosity in her eyes. Felicity wasn't sure what kind of reaction she was expecting, but she wasn't expecting Sara's eyes to widen in horror, or for her to suddenly release the frame so so that it fell to the floor. Felicity let out an involuntary cry as the picture she had treasured for as long as she could remember fell to the floor, the glass shattering. The sound seemed to echo in the quiet of the foundry.

Felicity was on her knees, gingerly picking up the picture. "Where did you . . ." Sara began. She took a shaky breath and started again. "Is that you?"

Felicity carried the frame over to the trash and carefully pulled the glass shards away from the picture. There were already several long scratches on the picture, one falling directly across her father's face. "Yes," she said. "Who is he, Sara?"

"You really should talk to Oliver," Sara said softly.

"I tried," Felicity said. "I didn't directly ask him, but he won't talk to me Sara. He won't talk to me about anything right now." And she suspected, from the way that Sara had acted, that his memories of her father were not good ones—that her father was not a good person at all. Maybe that was why he wouldn't talk to her anymore. Maybe when he looked at her, he only saw the sins of her father. "Who is he?"

"We knew him as Anthony. Anthony Ivo."

Felicity's eyes widened. "Ivo?" She felt a sudden pressure in her chest. She couldn't breathe. She had heard the name before. From Slade, on the night she had almost died. And from Oliver, when he had filled the blanks for them after. "He killed Shado." She had finished picking the glass off the picture, and quickly shoved it back in her bag, no longer wanting to look at it.

Sara closed her eyes. "Yes." She shifted, pulling herself up to sit fully on the table. "Are you sure you want to hear this?"

Felicity swallowed, shaking her head. She tried hard to blink back the tears forming in her eyes. "Not at all. But I need to."

Sara pursed her lips. "I first met Anthony a few days after the Gambit went down." She got a far-away look in her eyes, and Felicity tried to imagine floating in the South China Sea for days on end. She remembered the deep blue expanse they had flown over when they had went to retrieve Oliver from Lian Yu, and shivered. "The crew pulled me on board this huge freighter, the Amazo. And it was so strange, because there were prison cells on that ship. The crew left me in one of those cells, and Ivo let me out. I didn't understand why—he said it could be lonely on the ship, and for a while, I thought he would want me to . . ." Sara shivered. "He gave me clothes though, and he taught me about science." She exhaled. "He performed experiments on the people that they held in the ship's prison."

"Brigg," said Felicity absentmindedly. "A prison on a ship is a brigg." Her father was a monster. The man who she had spent most of her life missing had been on the other side of the world, torturing people in the name of science. And also shooting people Oliver cared about. No wonder he hadn't been able to look her in the eye.

Sara was watching her again. "Felicity, let me call Oliver . . ."

"No," Felicity said quickly. "I want to hear it all. It sounds like you knew him best anyway."

Sara nodded. "I was on that boat with him for a year," she said softly. "We were looking for a Japanese submarine that had the _mirakuru _on board. Or search took us to Lian Yu, and next thing I knew, I was seeing Oliver. I thought he was dead, so it was a shock. I even betrayed him, in the beginning, to Anthony. That's how we ended up on the island together. Oliver had this hosen that gave the coordinates of the submarine. We escaped, and met Slade and Shado. Slade was injured badly, so we sought out the _mirakuru _to save him. But we thought it killed him, and then Anthony came and took us off into the woods."

"And that's when he killed Shado," Felicity said. She knew the story. Slade had made sure she knew the story of how Ivo had expected Oliver to choose between Shado and Sara. Two women he had slept with, two women he cared about.

Sara nodded. "After that, he went back to the freighter. He radioed me once, tried to bring me back into his fold, but it didn't work. I realized he was crazy."

Her father was a psychopath. Who killed people, and used them for scientific experiments. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself.

"We stormed the freighter," she said softly. "And there was a huge battle."

Felicity waited, but Sara didn't continue. "What happened to him, Sara?" Whatever end he came to, she was sure he deserved it. Because he had killed people. He was not a good man. She blinked, and felt the tears slide down her cheeks.

Sara was looking down. "Slade was out of control. He was slaughtering people on the boat left and right. The crew, the prisoners, it didn't matter. So Anthony grabbed me, and he took me to Slade." She exhaled again, trying to steady her voice, and Felicity saw tears in Sara's eyes. Felicity realized that whatever was about to come out next had left an invisible scar on Sara, because her father had been kind to her, at least for a time. "He told Slade that Shado was only dead because Oliver chose to save me instead. Slade _lost it_. He went after Oliver, and he went after me. I got away, and Oliver got into this fight with Anthony. He . . . he . . ."

Felicity closed her eyes. "He killed him," she finished for her. _Of course_. Of course that was how it would end.

Sara nodded. "And then Slade came after me, and I went over the side, and I really don't know what happened next. I didn't see Oliver again until he came back . . . until you brought him back the second time."

Felicity nodded, wiping the tears from her eyes. "Um, I have to go . . ." She stood up, grabbing her bag. She needed to get out of here before she lost it.

_Her father was a monster. _

_Her father was a murderer. _

_Oliver had killed her father. _

_Her father was a monster._

"Wait, Felicity!" Sara gave chase as she moved toward the stairs. "Let me . . ."

"No!" Felicity spun around and put her hands in the air. "Don't call _anyone_, I don't want _anyone_!" She was losing it now, and the tears were falling unchecked. "Just let me go. I just need some time . . . I just need . . ." She felt a sob break out, and she whirled, running up the stairs as fast as she could.

_Her father was a monster. _

_Her father was a murderer. _

_Oliver had killed her father. _

_Her father was a monster._

Had he not been able to tell her because he thought she would hate him because of it? Or because he hated her, because he would forever be reminded that she spawned from the man who had brought Slade's vengeance down on all of them; that her father had killed a woman he cared about. She was shaking as she drove, and a part of her realized it probably wasn't safe to drive in such a state. Somehow, she made it back. She slammed her apartment door and slid down it, finally breaking down.

_Her father was a monster. _

_Her father was a murderer. _

_Oliver had killed her father. _

_Her father was a monster._

Nothing would ever be the same again.


	3. Part III-A Different Type of Purgatory

Part III-A Different Type of Purgatory

Oliver was having brunch with Thea when Sara appeared in the kitchen, looking wild-eyed and worried. He was on alert in an instant, thinking the worst. Someone was hurt, someone was taken . . . someone needed the Arrow. "What is it?" He said quickly.

"Felicity," she said softly, and the worry in her eyes spoke volumes. _No. No. No. No. _He had been evading her questions all week. He should have known she would ask Sara. That was such a Felicity thing to do—she would think she would cause him pain by asking, so she would ask the people who knew him best, who might have answers. She was smart. She had asked Sara. Who knew pretty much everything when it came to the man in the picture.

Thea's eyes widened as she took in his face. "Ollie?" He may have laid his head on the table to calm his breath, and maybe that's why his sister sounded so worried.

"Thea, I'm sorry, I need to deal with this."

Thea nodded, kissing his cheek as she left. "She'll come around," she said softly, "whatever it is."

For some reason, he doubted it.

As soon as Thea was gone, Sara leveled him with a nuclear gaze. "How could you not talk to her about that, Oliver?"

He shook his head, then put his elbows on the table and rested his head in his hands. "Because I knew she would hate me when she found out."

Sara shook her head, and he realized there were tears in her eyes. "I don't think so," she said. "If she hates anyone, I'm pretty sure it's herself." He tightened his jaw at that—it didn't make any sense to him. "I tried to get her to let me call you, but she was adamant. I came here as soon as she left."

"Thank you," he said, and his voice cracked.

"You need to go check on her or something," Sara said, "because she didn't look good, Oliver. She looked . . . _wrecked_. Absolutely wrecked, like her world got turned upside down. I've never seen her look like that, not even after . . . " She trailed off. But he filled in the blanks. Not even after Slade had almost killed her. Because of him. _Always _because of him.

He nodded to Sara, and he was out the door. Suddenly, he couldn't get there fast enough. He called her as he got in the Mercedes. He kept calling here, even though it went to voicemail every time. He thought she would answer when he knocked on her door though. Until she didn't. He never considered that she wouldn't answer. He sat there for a good ten minutes, knocking and pleading. Until he gave up and finally slipped outside to the alley, scaling the side of the building after checking to make sure no one was watching. He looked in her window, and finally realized she wasn't there. The gravity of the situation began to set in.

He called Diggle, getting his voicemail, and then he went to the lair, hoping she would show up sooner rather than later. There was a voice in the back of his head that started to say she wouldn't, but he ignored it.

When the door opened at the top of the stairs, he looked up hopefully. But instead of Felicity, it was John. And he looked absolutely furious. "What the hell did you do, Oliver?"

The heavy feeling in his chest got worse. He swallowed. "I . . . omitted pertinent information."

Diggle glared at him, arms across his chest. "She's leaving."

Again, the words didn't make sense. "What?"

"She came to say goodbye, and she was in tears," he said accusingly. "She wouldn't say what was wrong, only that she had to go."

Oliver felt like he was choking. This couldn't be happening. She wouldn't just _leave_. When he had thought about what would happen if . . . when . . . she found out, it had never been this. She would be angry, she would quit the office, she might even quit the night job, but she wouldn't run.

She didn't run. He was the one who ran. That was what he did best, when things got too complicated.

He was up the stairs and back in the car before he understood what he was doing. And this time, her apartment door was open. He felt a surge of hope as he walked in to her door, expecting to see her standing in the kitchen making coffee. Instead, he saw movers packing her things into boxes. The choking feeling returned. _She's leaving_. Dig's voice echoed in his head. Maybe she was already gone.

"Can I help you?" A voice said. He turned to see a man in overalls and glasses standing at the doorway, holding a ring of keys. Her building manager, he supposed.

"I'm looking for Ms. Smoak," Oliver said.

"She turned in her key this morning, said there was a family emergency and that she wouldn't be coming back," the man said. Oliver supposed he must be her building manager.

He thought of her apartment being empty, and then being filled with another person's things, and he could barely draw in a breath. He pulled out his wallet. "I'd like to rent the apartment, please," he said. "Just let me know what you need from me."

The man leveled a curious look at Oliver over the top of his glasses. "Aren't you Oliver Queen?" When Oliver nodded, the man shrugged. "Follow me, I'll get you the paperwork."

He stayed long after the movers were gone. At some point he drifted from room to room, letting the emptiness settle in. It was then that he found her phone, sitting next to the sink in the kitchen. He picked it up, and keyed in her code. He saw his missed calls, as well as missed calls from Digg and Sara.

He closed his eyes, hand tightening around her phone. He sat on her floor until the sun set, and the Arrow could have free reign. He went back to the foundry and donned his leathers, ignoring the worried glances and words from both Diggle and Sara. He filled Starling City's jail that night. He shed blood—both his own and others. As the sun rose, he stumbled back to the foundry, exhausted and empty. The foundry was empty too. No Felicity. No Diggle or Sara. Just stark, quiet emptiness. After he changed, he went upstairs and took the best bottle of scotch Verdant had to offer. He'd never been much of scotch drinker, but he figured this pain, which seemed to be on a different level from the pain he had previously experienced in his life, required a something special.

He found himself back in her apartment with the bottle of scotch as the sun gleamed in through her windows. It was so empty in those rooms—like every trace of Felicity had already been wiped away. Gone was everything that made this place hers, but he refused to think of it as anyone else's. He couldn't think of every trace of her being wiped away from here. From what they did. From _him_. Because she had left a mark, and he hadn't realized what an integral part of all of it she was. Not really. Not until she was already gone. He took a swig of the scotch, directly from the bottle, and something occurred to him. She had said goodbye to Diggle, but not to him. He had done something very similar last year when he had left after the Undertaking. He hadn't said goodbye to her. Somehow, this seemed less _real _because she hadn't said goodbye to him. He had never thought of her leaving, but he couldn't imagine her leaving without a goodbye.

Him leaving without a goodbye though, that shouldn't have come as a surprise to anyone. Knowing what he knew now, that she had been abandoned by her father and that she had fears of losing the people she cared about, he wondered what had happened to her when he'd left. What she had thought, when Diggle had told her that he was already gone? He thought about how he had left, without a word to her, depositing money in her bank account as a thank you. _Some thank you._ Had she felt the same kind of emptiness as he did now? Probably not, because it wasn't her fault that he had left, but this _was _his fault. He wondered if his leaving, last May, had made her feel like he had abandoned her, too. The thought made him take another swig of the scotch. Whatever she had thought, she had believed he would come back, because she had rebuilt and improved the foundry. She had made it a place that they wanted to be. And when he hadn't come back on his own, she had literally flown into his self-imposed purgatory and pulled him out.

At some point, he finished the bottle, and fell into a dreamless sleep.

xxx

He didn't really understand that she was _gone_ until he walked into Queen Consolidated on Monday. She had said goodbye to Diggle, but she hadn't said goodbye to him, and while that was something _he _would do, it didn't seem like her. He half expected to see her already there, colorful and bubbly, sitting at her desk. Instead, he saw that her desk had been cleared away. He realized she had been here at some point over the weekend. The desk she had occupied for the past seven months was cleared of all of her personal effects. Only the computer, the stapler and the keyboard remained. He felt a heavy dread settle over him. He walked into his office, and saw a single piece of paper sitting next to a small green box on his desk. Neither item had been there on Friday when he had left for the day.

His hand shook as he reached for the box, reading the letter as he did so. It was a signed resignation, effective immediately, due to "unforeseen family circumstances." Cold and impersonal and exactly what you would expect from someone leaving a job they hadn't loved as a minion at a huge corporation. This was her ending her secret identity in an official, believable way.

There was a small note on the box's tag. He opened is slowly, not wanting to read the words. Because this would be her final goodbye. He knew it in his bones. He hadn't thought that anything could hurt more than almost losing her, but now he knew better. Actually losing her was going to be much worse.

_Oliver,_

_I'm sorry. Sorry that I couldn't do this in person. Sorry that it ended this way._

_Goodbye._

She hadn't signed it. She'd signed the resignation, but not the note, and he didn't know how he felt about that. He opened the box. It was a small golden pin, and he wondered where on earth she had found it. It was a Mandarin character, one he knew. He knew almost all of them, after all. But this one . . . it meant hero. He dropped it down on the desk, his hand coming up to rub his eyes. He didn't understand. She still saw him as a hero. How could she still see him as a hero, when he had killed her father? And worse, she still saw him as a hero, but she had left anyway. He didn't understand.

Diggle was there then, having parked the car. He looked at Oliver, looked at the box, and Oliver couldn't take it anymore. He couldn't take the accusation in his friend's eyes. He grabbed the pin, and he did what he did best. He ran. He was outside and hailing a cab in no time. He found himself back at her apartment, using the key had had gotten from the apartment manager on Saturday. He opened the door, and for some reason the stark emptiness hit him smack in the middle of his chest.

She was gone. Gone from the office, gone from the lair. Gone from Starling City. She was gone from his life completely. She had said goodbye—something he had never done, not even when he had run back to the island with no intention of returning. He closed the door and slid down it, not knowing that she had done the exact same thing just two mornings before. He fingered the pin in his hands. That was the worst part of it. She knew he had killed her father, and _still thought he was a hero_. He had been so sure that knowing that would change how she saw him. He didn't believe in _her _enough to see past that ugly truth. Which meant that if he had only told her the truth himself, if he had only just told her how he felt about her, she wouldn't be gone. She would still be here.

He knew he should be telling himself it was better this way. It was better that she was no longer in his life, that she was completely removed from it, because she would never be the subject of his vengeful enemies. But sitting there in her empty apartment, there was no part of himself that felt better having it this way. She was _gone_. And suddenly this life that he was growing to love again, this life where he could make a difference in the world, where he could be there for his family again . . . it suddenly felt meaningless. And empty. And not at all like a life. It felt like hell.

_AN: **Runs and hides** I cried when I wrote this. And drank lots of wine. I hate it, and I love it, and I hate it. This was all I had planned out, when I decided to put it on FF. But I think I will probably come back this this. Not soon, but eventually, so don't wait with a bated breath or anything. Think of it as an Olicity-nightmare-season-finale. One I hope we never actually see on screen because, GAH, an entire summer of living with that ending. Thanks, but no._


	4. Interlude I - A Glimpse of The Future

Interlude I: A Glimpse of the Future

Felicity sat outside of the large, stately building. From out here, it didn't look like a hospital—it looked like an office building of a long-standing corporation, rooted in history. She had Oliver Queen to thank for her ability to afford this place—before she started helping him with his night job, her mother had lived in a far less appealing institution, one that stank of misery and despair and insanity. She had visited her every weekend back then, more out of guilt for leaving her in such a terrible place than for anything else. It wasn't like her mother could recognize her. But it had been all she could afford at the time, and as much as it pained her, she had left her there.

When Oliver had left after the fall of the Glades, this was the one thing she put the money that Oliver had left her towards, other than the renovations of the lair. Hillcrest was one of the top institutions for rare neurological disorders in the country. That it was located on the east coast, far from Starling, hadn't really mattered. She simply wanted her mother to be as comfortable as possible, given her circumstances. In a way, she had been relieved that visit now required a plane ride and two hour drive. It had been harder to visit once she turned twenty, and more-so every single year after. The older she got, the more visits to her mother felt like glimpses into the future.

_Her_ future.

Felicity closed her eyes and scrubbed her hands over her face. It had been a week since she had left Starling. She had taken the train to Central City to say goodbye to Barry . . . for all the good it had done. There had been no change in his condition in the five months since he slipped into a coma. She had left the number of her burner cell with his friend, Caitlyn, who had promised to call her if anything changed with him. She had rented a car using a new name and had driven aimlessly for days. But in the back of her mind, she knew she would end up here. Even though it was unlikely her mother would be able to tell her anything, she still knew she'd end up here.

Taking a deep breath and stealing herself, she stepped out of the car. The weather was so very different here in the southeast, and she was assaulted the humid air as she walked slowly toward the stairs that would take her into the building. The sweltering heat seemed to cling to her skin. When she stepped through the large glass doors into cool, dry lobby of Hillcrest, the sudden change in temperature had goose bumps popping up on her skin. She rubbed her arms and wrapped them around herself.

"Good afternoon," said a young woman dressed in a spartan white uniform behind the reception desk. "How can I help you?"

Felicity slid out her id and slid it to the woman. "My name is Felicity. I'm here to visit my mother—Jessica Smoak?"

The woman nodded, and chatted about the weather as she typed at her computer. Felicity nodded and made non-commital sounds in response, but only because it was the polite thing to do. Dread was pooling in her belly, and getting worse with every moment she came closer to visiting her mother. She hadn't been here since a week after she had checked her in. Even though she doubted her mother would even remember her, she felt like it was a betrayal to the woman who had brought her into this world. But at the same time, every visit before she had brought her to Hillcrest has left her crying for a least a solid hour when she had left. Because sometimes her mother could be downright spiteful—it wasn't that she meant to, it was simply a byproduct of the dementia.

An orderly came down the stairs and said her name, smiling at the pretty lady behind the reception desk. Felicity followed him, calling out a thank you to the receptionist as she went. As she climbed the stairs, she found it harder to breath. _Breath in, breath out_. She focused on each action as she put one foot in front of the other. She looked over the railing at the plushly-appointed common room, where patients sat in wheel chairs and at tables. Some played games, while others sat staring into space. _Her future_. No, she couldn't allow herself to think like that. She gave herself a mental shake, and followed the orderly as he turned left down a long hall. It felt more institutional up here—more like a hospital and less like the waiting area of a hotel.

"She's been particularly lucid lately," the orderly said. "Talking a lot about her family, which is you I guess." This surprised Felicity. Usually during her visits, her mother rarely talked about anything related to her or her father. Usually she railed and screamed and asked why she was being held a prisoner. And who had stolen her ability to move.

"Have there been any . . . changes?" She asked, almost afraid of the answer.

The orderly shrugged. "Her mobility has continued to deteriorate. PMA usually only affects the lower limbs, as I'm sure you know, but this version your mother has . . . she's lost the rest of mobility in her hands in the past six months or so." Felicity felt a wave of shame that she hadn't come more often. But the orderly gave her a half smile as he held a door open for her. There was no judgement in his eyes, only pity. "Here you are."

She nodded her thanks, and then stepped into the room. It was painted a calming blue, and had a large window overlooking the lawn and lake outside. Blue had always been her mother's favorite color. She remembered her mother painting both of their nails, on her good days, various hues of blue. That was before her mind had truly begun to slip. She would call Felicity over and sit next to her, telling her stories about her own childhood, about how she had met her father, and about how they had come to live in their house. They were some of her happiest memories.

The petite woman sitting in the wheel chair by the window was smaller than she remembered, frailer. Her dirty-blonde hair was shot through more grey. Her hands lay in her lap, fingers curled in a way that looked excruciatingly painful. Felicity felt tears clog her throat, and she blinked them back. "Mom?" She said softly.

The woman rolled her head to the side and looked at her. There was no recognition in her dull blue eyes. "It's Felicity, Mom."

"I used to have a Felicity," she said softly, turning her head to look back out the window.

Felicity stepped toward the chair next to her mother. "May I sit with you?" She asked. She took the lack of a reply as permission, and sat down next to her mother. She looked out the window. "It's very pretty here."

"I like blue," she said. "The water is always blue."

Felicity swallowed, unsure how to bring up her father, unsure of what to say to the woman she hadn't seen in nearly a year and who didn't recognize her. She pulled out the picture from her purse—the one that Sara had dropped on the foundry floor. It seemed like a lifetime ago, but she supposed it had been less only a week. She had folded it up and stuck it in her purse after she had arranged for the movers to come to her apartment. She had cried as she had creased it, this thing she had cherished for so long. But she knew she couldn't hold it as a cherished object anymore—she would never be able to place it in frame in her living room and smile when she thought about how happy they looked. Because her father had killed people. He had made Sara hurt people. She felt the clogging feeling in her throat again and pushed it back down.

She unfolded the picture and held the picture out for her mother to see. Jessica Smoak turned her head again, looking at a younger, mobile version of herself standing next to a handsome man. "Hmmmm," she said.

"Do you remember them?" Felicity asked gently. Her mother just blinked her eyes as she continued to stare at the picture. "Do you remember _him_?" She tapped the image of her father.

"Anthony . . ." Her mother said softly. _Ivo. Anthony Ivo_. _Psychopath. Scientist. Father._

"Yes, Anthony." Felicity swallowed. "Anthony Ivonsen . . . he was a doctor?" She gave her mother the name that was on her birth certificate, and on her father's license to practice medicine. Why he had shortened it, she didn't know.

The dull blue eyes got a far-away look. "He left." Felicity started to speak, but her mother went on. "He left to get something."

Felicity tilted her head. "What did he leave to get?"

"Something to fix it," her mother whispered.

_Something to fix it_. Suddenly, she was six, and calling her mother's name frantically as she stared vacantly into space. And then she was sitting in the doctor's office, next to her mother as he explained that her mother's "dementia" was actually a very rare form of a motor neuron disease. "To fix what?"

"My mind," she whispered, and tears slid down her eyes. "I used to know things, I used to be smart."

Felicity couldn't breathe again. This was her future. It wasn't guaranteed, but it was a very real possibility, and she felt as if she were being smothered in the sunny blueness of the room.

"Where did he go? Anthony?" She needed to finish, and escape.

"He left." She said. "Like my mind left . . ." And then she was staring into space, and Felicity knew the conversation was over. Her mother had gone to whatever recess her mind liked to hide in. She sat with her for a long while more, because it seemed like the right thing to do. She wanted to escape . . . she couldn't seem to breath in this place.

When she finally felt that she had stayed long enough, even though she knew it didn't make up for her absence in the past year, Felicity stood. "'Bye, Mom," she said gently, kissing the top of her head. Her mother didn't acknowledge her as she left. As she walked down the hall to the stairs, her pace quickened. She was out of the building and back in her car, and then she was grabbing the wheel as she tried to pull air into her lungs over the gasping sobs that wracked her.

It had taken a long while to understand what was going on with her mother. Before Felicity was born, she had been working on her PhD in computer sciences. She had been brilliant. But most of Felicity's memories of her included sudden lapses in lucidity—moments where she would check out and not come back to herself for days on end. Progressive muscular atrophy usually didn't affect people until they were in their fifties, and it generally left the mind intact. But whatever version of the disease lived inside Jessica Smoak had been different—it had attacked her mind first, and the decay had been slow and excruciatingly painful to watch. Now at the age of forty-nine, there was nothing left of her mother except a shell of a body. Normally these kinds of motor neuron disorders were not hereditary, but the closer Felicity came to her 25th birthday—when her mother had started showing symptoms—the more she started to worry. Her mind was her most powerful weapon and her most valuable asset. What good would she be to anyone without it?

And according to her mother, her father had left to find something to cure her mind. Anthony Ivo had been after the _mirakuru_. _The miracle_. Because when your mind and body betrays you . . . you need a miracle to fix it. Was that truly why her father had ended up in the South China Sea, looking for a serum developed by the Japanese? To cure her mother? It was just too much.

Eventually she calmed down enough to start the car. Even though the sun was setting, and she should probably check into a hotel for some sleep, she put the car in gear and pointed it north. It wasn't like she'd be sleeping any time soon anyway.


End file.
